Little Accident
by MissTempleton
Summary: Maybe one day, Phryne and Jack will be able to dictate the future. In the meantime, they'll take what life throws at them with wit, stamina and surrounded by the very best of friends.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"Phryne, it's going to be dark, and rough ground, and we don't know how many of them there'll be!"

Detective Chief Inspector Jack Robinson ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end in disarray that accurately reflected his wits. The Honourable Phryne Fisher was determined, furiously angry, and nine months into the expectation of the delivery of his child.

(Strictly speaking, it would be nine months on the following Sunday, and this was Thursday, but anyone speaking strictly to Mrs Robinson at that stage would be taking their life in both hands and well advised to ensure that their affairs were in order before opening proceedings).

At this stage, Mrs Robinson was not being The Little (sorry, pun not intended) Woman; she was largely (sorry again) engaged in being The Honourable Phryne Fisher, Lady Detective. She was also engaged in being immensely (your reporter is now giving up trying to avoid painful – gah – puns) angry.

"Jack, this is _my_ collar. I found them, I baited them, and I am handing them to you on a plate." She braced both hands on the arms of her chair and pushed herself up to loom over him – as much as she could from a point somewhere short of his chin. She had, however, learned Looming from some truly inspirational teachers, foremost among whom was her maid's great-grandmother. Mrs Lin made up in ancestors what she lacked in inches, and every generation was more terrifying than the last.

Miss Fisher may not have researched her ancestry that much, but there were generations of criminals in both of the Earth's hemispheres who could attest to her ability to deliver on the threat that glittered in her eyes. Jack hesitated, weighing the merits of trying to force her to remain at home against the dangers of having her wreaking havoc at his crime scene.

She, naturally, spotted the hesitation and the argument was won. "If you absolutely insist, I'll stay in the car until you've got them," she conceded. "Much as it pains me."

Wordlessly, he stepped back to allow her to precede him to the door.

As he did so, though, the telephone rang. The two sleuths hesitated on the doorstep, watching as Mr Butler lifted the receiver. After a brief exchange, he held it out to the lady of the house.

"Mr Johnson, Miss. Asking for you."

Phryne rolled her eyes. "I'll make it brief, Jack. Don't you _dare_ stir without me."

He shrugged resignedly, and turned to inform the young constable waiting to chauffeur them that they would only be a moment.

The prognosis, however, might have been overly optimistic.

"Bert, what is it? Oh? Well, you're in the right place, then, aren't you? WHAT? Good Lord. Oh, bother. Can't it wait … no, I suppose not." She heaved a sigh. "Oh, very well. Wait there."

She slammed the receiver down crossly then looked down at her immense waistline and up at Mr Butler. "I'm sorry, Mr B, I'm going to need you to drive me." As the factotum bowed and went to get the car out, she scowled at Jack. "You win. Take careful notes, and be sure to tell those lowlives who they have to thank for their misfortune."

He tipped his head enquiringly, not at all sure he was going to be any happier at her new plan than he'd been with the old one. In her current state, he was still nursing the heartfelt desire that she would remain at home with her feet up as much as possible - while acknowledging that any such languid spirit would not have been the Miss Fisher without whom his life would be incomplete.

"What's Albert done now? Where is he?"

"Hospital," she replied briefly. "The Alfred."

"What on earth does he need you for, then? If he's got hurt in a blue, the place is full of nurses. He doesn't need you to rally round with the sticking plaster."

She shook her head. "No, he was working. Unfortunately, his fare asked to go into town from the docks and then upped and died in the back of the cab."

"Good God," exclaimed Jack. "So Albert took him to the hospital. Fair enough. I'm still not clear why he needs you, though?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Apparently Matron's giving him the Evil Eye and won't let him go. Thinks it's his fault." She grinned, despite everything. "He even offered to forgo the fare."

"It must be serious," he deadpanned. Then looked at his watch, and started. "I have to get going. Telephone here, won't you, to let us know how you get on? Then I can ring up to find out, even if I can't get over there personally."

She opened her mouth to object that she didn't need his help, and caught the silent plea in his eyes. Relenting, she nodded, and with a brief kiss, he sprinted to his waiting car.

She watched him go, and saw the gleam of the Hispano-Suiza in the street lights as Mr B drew up where the police car had been only seconds before.

She called to her maid. "Soo? I'm sorry, I need to ask you to man the telephone, and I'm not sure how long we will be."

The girl only nodded matter-of-factly, and proffered a light wrap for her mistress.

"In _this_ heat? Thanks, but no," said Phryne decidedly. "I'll pass out if I get any warmer - then you'll have to be the one to confess to my overly-protective husband that it was your fault."

With which parting shot, she sailed like a stately galleon to the kerbside, where Mr B was waiting with the door of the Hispano held open. Sinking into the passenger seat, and trying not to wince at the twinge in her back, Miss Fisher watched him take his seat at the wheel. Waving a regal hand, she shouted to the night air.

"The Alfred Hospital, Mr B! We have a red ragger to rescue from an onslaught of nurses!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

When they rolled up at the Alfred they found not one, but two red-raggers waiting for them.

"Hello, Cec," Phryne greeted the other as she took stock of their surroundings. Hospital corridors were never particularly hospitable, and this one was clearly thinking of heading the race to the bottom. There was a chair - just the one. There was peeling paintwork. There was the perennial presence of the smell of antiseptic. And there were two gloomy-looking taxi drivers, who perked up visibly at the sight of Miss Fisher. "Bert didn't say you were both here?"

"I wasn't, Miss," answered Cec Yates hastily. "Bert phoned me to come."

"Thought I could do with a bit of support," growled Bert Johnson, rolling an unlit cigarette around the corner of his mouth.

" _Two_ telephone calls!" remarked Phryne admiringly. "Oh, well, at least we can be reassured that you're not Chief Suspect quite yet, Albert." She glanced around again. "So, do you want to tell me what happened before Matron descends on us?"

Bert shrugged. "Not much more to tell you, really, Miss. Like I said, I picked up the bloke by the docks. Said he was sailing to Queensland on the _Marella_ but she wouldn't be leaving till midnight and could I take him into town to get something to eat? So I tells him to hop in. After a few minutes, he says he's feeling a bit tired and he's just going to get a bit of shut-eye. No problem, I says. Looked at him in the mirror and he was sweating a bit, but it's a hot night, ain't it?"

The audience agreed that it was.

"So, I pulls up in Lonsdale Street like we'd agreed, and he doesn't wake up. I shout at 'im a bit, but he doesn't bat an eyelid; so I think I've got myself some sort of a joker, and go to haul him out of the cab."

He grimaced. "That's when I realised he was out for the count. So, I thinks if I'm to get my fare, I'd best get him brought round, so I comes 'ere, and then they tell me he's upped and died!" He looked round at them all, the grievance writ plainly on his face. "I ask yer!"

During the peroration, Phryne had given up pretending that she was happy to stand and appropriated the sole chair.

"Awful for you," she said mildly. "But you said Matron thinks it's your fault somehow?"

His face darkened. "Yer. Old witch - beggin' yer pardon, Miss - reckons I was driving recklessly and give 'im an 'eart attack."

Phryne snorted. "If that's it, Bert, dear, we'll have you home in no time. Anyone who accuses _you_ of dangerous driving shouldn't be let out in traffic."

Those present tried not to let their faces show too clearly the general opinion of Miss Fisher and traffic; Mr Butler had an excellent poker face, but the red-raggers were less successful.

Help, however, came from an unexpected quarter.

"Miss Fisher! Very good to see you, but - good Lord, should you be out and about?"

The lady in question swung round in her seat, and smiled broadly.

"Ross McCafferty! How lovely to see you - now that I've almost forgiven you for leaving me onstage with no leading man." She extended a regal hand and the doctor bowed over it with exaggerated respect.

"The loss was entirely mine," he replied gallantly. "I'm only glad that the appendix I had to deal with was uncomplicated - and from everything I heard, my understudy rather upstaged me!"

She grinned, "Jack did make a rather good Jack, it has to be said - albeit if he does it again, he'll need to learn Mr Wilde's lines properly." She broke off and winced a little; and he was instantly alert.

"What is it?"

She flapped a hand. "Nothing. Have you been looking after Bert's passenger?"

McCafferty looked at her assessingly, but knowing enough to realise that there was no forcing Miss Fisher to submit to any care she hadn't personally requested, he shrugged and shook his head.

"I've looked at him; but I'm afraid he had died before he got here."

"A heart attack, I understand?"

"It looks very much like it."

"There you go then," interjected Cec, who'd remained silent up to that point, but saw a chance to stick in a helpful oar and grasped it with both hands. "Could've happened to anyone, right, doc?"

McCafferty pursed his lips. "Yes, it could; although I'd have said the man was a little young to be an obvious candidate. We don't know anything of his medical background."

At this point, they were interrupted by a stout woman of indeterminate age and a clear predilection for starch.

"You there!" she announced, and pointed a stern finger at Bert. Bert wasn't a fan of being pointed at, and the atmosphere chilled noticeably. He didn't deign to respond beyond an aggressive jerk of the chin, but Matron was by now in full flight.

"Doctor, I demand that you telephone the police. We have a dead body on our hands, and I would stake my _considerable_ reputation on it that this man is responsible."

Phryne though privately that she'd rather place the woman on a considerable stake, but when she saw McCafferty starting to look harassed, decided to calm matters down a little.

"If I might make a suggestion, doctor?"

McCafferty only said "Yes, Miss Fisher?" but the look that accompanied it was as a drowning man being offered an entire life-raft, equipped with a gourmet restaurant and a fully-stocked bar.

"You were just saying that you would need to know more about the deceased in order to make a better assessment of the cause of death?" she asked delicately. He nodded. "Then, I believe I should be offered the opportunity to help build a case for _my client's_ " at this Matron narrowed her eyes suspiciously, "defence, by discovering the information for you?"

"Preposterous!" exploded Matron. "As soon as he's out of our sight, he'll attack that woman, defenceless as she is!"

There was a short silence, while Dr McCafferty, Bert and Cec all tried not to laugh, Mr Butler's expression became more than usually akin to granite, and Miss Fisher's mouth dropped open.

Then she recovered. Pulling herself up to her full height, she looked down her nose at the older woman for as long as it took for the angry countenance to become by degrees confused, disconcerted and finally, apprehensive.

"I don't believe we've met," said Phryne with a slight smile, which was not reflected either in her glittering eyes or in any outstretched hand of greeting. "The Honourable Phryne Fisher. You need have no concern for my welfare at the hands of this gentleman," she glanced at Bert and gave a ghost of a wink. "Quite the opposite." (Whether this was to refer to the likelihood of _her_ harming _him_ instead was not made clear).

Bert spluttered into his handkerchief and Cec hastily raised his sleeve to cover his mouth.

"Now," Phryne looked firmly at Ross. "Would it be possible to review the deceased's effects?"

Speechlessly, Ross gestured to the open door opposite, and with queenly bearing, Miss Fisher exited the scene.

Stage left.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"Is this it?" asked Phryne, gazing in dismay at the tray beside the bed. If so, the deceased's entire property consisted of a few pounds, a travel ticket and a latchkey.

"Afraid so" replied McCafferty. He reached for the sheet covering the face and looked enquiringly at her. She nodded, and he lifted it away. The face underneath was of swarthy appearance; a full head of hair was only slightly greying at the temples.

"Aboriginal," she observed, and gestured for the sheet to be replaced. "And it was definitely his heart that gave out?"

"Oh, certainly," McCafferty assured her. "It will take a post-mortem to find out if there was an underlying condition, or if something else might have caused it, but the actual cause of death isn't in question."

Her attention turned to the effects. She picked up the ticket, and examined it. "The _Marella_. Passage to Queensland." She looked up at Bert. "Did he have any bags at all with him?"

The cabbie shook his head. "Nah. Said he'd put them on board."

"Then in that case," concluded Phryne, "the only thing we can do is get back to the _Marella_ straight away. Right now, we don't even know his name."

"Are you sure you should …" McCafferty regarded her doubtfully and was glared at for his trouble.

"Oh, stop fussing, Ross. The baby's not due for ages; I'd die of boredom sitting at home, and _someone's_ got to find out what happened to this poor man! Cec - you bring the taxi, I want Bert to come with us so that I can find out more about what happened" Before anyone had the chance to argue, she was striding out the door in determined fashion. The four men exchanged glances, shrugged, and followed; Mr Butler to try to get to the Hispano before his mistress, the red-raggers to follow orders and Ross McCafferty to find and placate his Matron.

In the meantime, Detective Chief Inspector Robinson was having a thoroughly boring time in a railway shunting yard. On the plus side, it was serving to remind Sergeant Collins that detective work wasn't exactly a laugh a minute; on the minus, the chilly atmosphere between him and City South's newest recruit, Detective Constable Lennox was doing nothing whatsoever to cool the temperature in the shed they occupied.

"Sir, it's almost ten thirty," whispered Collins. "Surely if they were coming, they'd be here by now?"

Jack held up a hand to quiet him, but was a little concerned. They'd taken position almost an hour prior to the designated rendezvous, but what if it hadn't been long enough? If they'd been observed, the whole exercise would be for nothing - and Miss Fisher would be furious.

A hiss from Lennox, though, made his heart leap. Sure enough, there were shadowy figures moving between the trucks on the adjacent line.

Jack waited for them to pass, then opened the shed door, and beckoned the others forward; a single flash with his torch had the three men positioned at the far end of the yard stealthily breaking cover. All six men approached the target, splitting so that all four avenues of escape were covered. Jack stayed on his side of the train, while Collins and Lennox ducked across to the other side; the three approaching split similarly, so that there were three men on each side of the train. They edged forwards and were almost level with the open door of the truck containing their quarry when one of the men approaching from the other side kicked a stone which bounced off the tracks, making a slight "chink" which sounded to Jack's aghast ears like the Crack of Doom.

In an instant, the door on the other side of the truck was flung open, and two figures sprang out to escape in the opposite direction to that by which they'd arrived.

That therefore had them landing straight in the arms of Collins and Lennox.

Collins' pugilistic talents stood him in good stead - the taller, lankier opponent was felled swiftly by a punch that he didn't see coming. Lennox, however, tried the approach learned on the sports field, and went for his man with a low tackle.

It didn't work. For his pains, he received a punishing knee to the forehead that would have had his opponent sent off - except there wasn't a referee for this bout. He rolled, head reeling, and were it not for Collins turning swiftly and sticking out a foot to trip the second felon, he might have got a good head start. As it was, he stumbled enough for Jack to vault over the coupling and pin him down with a knee in the middle of the back. Snapping on cuffs, he glanced over his shoulder to see the first suspect being similarly treated, and both were hauled, cursing, to their feet.

When they'd finished questioning the parentage of all the representatives of the State of Victoria there present, they turned their attention to the absence of a key person they'd planned to meet.

"Where's that b_ Fran, then?"

Jack smiled grimly. "She sent her apologies. Had a prior engagement. She wanted you to know, though, that the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher sends her compliments and looks forward to seeing you later - in the dock."

Miss Fisher's parentage was then also called into question, but as the suspects were now being loaded into the police van, no-one paid too much attention. Just as Jack was about to slam the door shut on them, one whined, "But she likes those books! She was the one supplied the last lot! You should get her for it - pure filth, they was!"

"I'm sorry you can't tell the difference between Filth and Art," replied Jack easily. "Miss Fisher certainly can. She also isn't in the habit of blackmailing the people who have it; and I think you'll find that it's an important distinction the judge will make, as well."

He slammed the door shut, locked it, and turned to the grinning man at his elbow.

"Take them away, Constable."

He saluted, and ran to join his two colleagues in the front of the van, which drove off, bouncing over the rough ground with scant regard for the occupants in the back.

Jack turned to face Collins and Lennox, the latter still rubbing his head and looking a little pale.

"A good night's work, all told. Come on, let's secure the rest of that merchandise and then get out of here."

They fell in beside him, and Lennox muttered gloomily, "A good night's work for the rest of you, sir." He glanced over at Hugh Collins. "I'm afraid you showed me up, Sergeant. Any chance you could show me that left of yours, in less pressured surroundings?"

Collins returned the look, and hesitated only for a moment. "I'd be pleased to. I run training sessions two or three times a week for some of the local lads - you'd be welcome to join us."

Jack said nothing, and neither of his subordinates saw his fleeting grin.

Diplomatic Relations Were Improving.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"So, he seemed okay when he got into the taxi?" mused Phryne, as Mr Butler wended his way towards the docks.

"Right as rain, Miss - at least, we're all a bit hot and bothered right now. He was glad to have a seat, and said he was going to have a sleep for a few minutes. That was the last thing he said," replied Bert morosely from the back seat.

She gazed unseeingly at the passing traffic. "Perhaps someone gave him something on the boat that made him ill - or before he got on." She shrugged. "Oh well, until we know more about him there isn't much we can do."

A few minutes later they pulled up at the gates to the docks. Phryne was all set for an argument, but Mr Butler took control. "The Honourable Phryne Fisher, to see the master of the _Marella_ " he announced to the gatekeeper, in a manner which suggested that the master in question would be cowering in gratitude at the honour being done him.

This particular gatekeeper had previous experience of Miss Fisher in any case, and went hastily to unlock the gates (or at least as hastily as his lumbago would allow, but none of the occupants of the Hispano thought it worthwhile objecting to the pace of the operation), and Cec managed to sneak the taxi in too, in the Hispano's illustrious wake.

It was thus a small convoy that pulled up in the moonlit shadow of the _Marella_ as she lay waiting for the tide. Miss Fisher was first out of the car, but paused for a moment as she stepped onto the dockside; her head was turned away, so no-one saw the grimace, but Mr Butler hastened around the vehicle to offer his arm. Had he done so with a concerned look, his head would have been bitten off; as it was, he gave only his most charming smile, and Miss Fisher therefore acquiesced in the pretence that they were only going for the most casual stroll up the gangplank.

"Can I 'elp you?" asked a midshipman with more aggression than was strictly necessary, as she reached the deck,

"A word with the Captain, please," said Phryne, suppressing her breathlessness as she offered her card. "I need to explain why he's going to be a passenger short for the voyage."

The jolly jack-tar was markedly unjolly, but even he could see the logic, and a few minutes later they were joined by a gentleman who hadn't bothered a barber for years, and whose girth announced that wouldn't be climbing any rigging in the immediate future.

"We're sailing in an hour, so make it quick," he advised brusquely.

"Enchanted to meet you, too," remarked Phryne drily. "I'm here in connection with one of your passengers. Or at least, he would have been - he's currently on his way from the Alfred Hospital to the City Morgue."

At that, she had the Captain's full attention. "Who was it?" His gaze switched from bored to watchful.

Phryne shrugged. "Can't help you there - the only clue we have to his identity is his ticket for tonight's sailing."

The captain's attention shifted to the midshipman. "Who are we still missing?"

The man consulted a clipboard. "Nearly at full complement. Just the Ryders left to come back on board. And the Abo."

The captain nodded. "The Ryders were going for dinner. I know him - they'll be here."

Phryne, however, was focussed on the other absentee.

"And the other passenger? I think that could be our man."

The captain looked askance. "The Abo? Yeah, that's his trunk there."

"He presumably has a name," Phryne prompted gently. Her tone made the red-raggers take an involuntary step backwards, but the captain only jerked his head at the clipboard-bearer, who ran a pencil down the list.

"Gillander," he announced with the air of one pronouncing final judgement.

"Mr … Gillander?" asked Phryne.

The man shrugged. "No idea. He just said Gillander."

Phryne looked from one to the other, impatience barely contained. "And his physical appearance?"

"Abo," said the captain. "What else do you want to know? If he isn't coming back, I want that trunk taken off."

Phryne nodded to Bert, who went forward to collect said luggage.

"Approximate age?" Phryne wasn't giving up.

The captain shrugged, but clipboard-monitor was more helpful. "Pretty old, I reckon. He couldn't even lift the trunk."

"Really?" asked Phryne, interest sparked. "So he needed help with his trunk?"

The question, though, appeared to cause some discomfiture. "He managed," muttered clipboard-monitor.

Everyone's gaze switched to Bert, who had now arrived at the box in question. He bent down, prepared after the conversation to find it a challenge, but not beyond the strength of a red-blooded Australian. He grasped the handles at each end of the box firmly, knees bent, and stood up.

Or tried to.

There are occasions where the word "strewth" is sufficient shorthand for "In God's Truth, this challenge is too great for an Australian to master".

This wasn't one of them, so Bert muttered something less admissible and yelled to Cec to Give Us A Hand.

Obliging as ever, Cec trotted up the gangplank and took the other end of the trunk. The two men took the strain, and then carried it off the boat. It may have landed on the dockside more heavily than was strictly intended by the designer, and the sweat pouring from both men was a clue to the task they had undertaken. The sun might have departed a few hours since, but the heat wasn't noticeably diminished.

As they relinquished the load, Cec straightened, and pushed his cap back on his head. Bert, belligerent as ever, put both hands on his hips and gave vent to his emotions.

"You let that bloke carry that trunk by himself?"

The captain fired up. "You think I'm running a ruddy holiday camp? Trunk's gone, I'm happy." He turned to his midshipman. "As soon as the Ryders get on board, we're casting off." As he started to return to the bridge, a stern voice followed him.

"Thank you, Captain. We'll get out of your way now. I don't think I caught your name?"

Every so often, the Collingwood girl could produce cut-glass tones.

They certainly cut the Captain to the quick.

"Bailey".

The word was thrown over his shoulder ungraciously as he launched himself at the stepladder.

The "thank you" was only mouthed after him by the Lady Detective, who then processed in dignified manner to the quayside.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

After the shortest of altercations, the trunk was deposited in the back of the taxi, and the motorcade made its way back to 221B The Esplanade. There, the problem article found its resting place in Miss Fisher's parlour and its porters were dispatched to the kitchen to claim due reward from the refrigerator, via the benevolent hand of Mr Butler.

Alone with her booty, Miss Fisher sank to her knees and tried the locks. The trunk proved to be unlocked, and she threw back the lid eagerly.

And sneezed (an activity to which her unborn child reacted noticeably, and had to be shushed and told to stay put, thank you very much). The top layer of the trunk contained clothing which was mostly the colour of the dust in which it was covered. Looking more closely as she removed it, she decided it was earth - Mr Gillander appeared to have been a keen gardener.

The next layer contained one or two books, and a package of letters tied together. With satisfaction, she noted that they were directed to Gillander at an address in Footscray; the following morning's work was therefore clear. Idly, she picked up the books. Archaeology? Gillander was perhaps, then, an educated man?

Beneath these, the reason for the trunk's inordinate weight was self-evident. It was almost half-filled with what appeared to be archaeological specimens.

Rocks.

"Tea, Madam?" She jumped; Mr Butler had done his usual silent approach. She smiled her thanks, and repacked the trunk, keeping only the packet of letters to hand.

"Haul me up, please, Mr B?" she held out a plaintive hand, and was drawn delicately to her feet.

She took the cup from him, sipped from it, and said "I think I'll take this up to bed with me. Has Soo put my night things out?"

"She has, Madam."  
"In that case, good night!"

She sat up in bed for a little while, sipping her tea and perusing the letters. Signed only "Jen", they were from Brisbane, and had the easy familiarity of family. Wife? No, this one was signed "your loving sister".

She was settling for the night when the door opened to reveal a much-loved and very weary policeman.

"Hello, Jack," she smiled sleepily. "Did you get them?"

He slipped off his shoes and came to join her. "We did. And they weren't very polite about you, I'm afraid." He slipped an arm around her shoulders and placed a protective hand on her bump; she laced her fingers with his, and turned her head for a kiss.

"How could they be rude about me? An art lover, and expectant mother? Surely they thought I was an easy mark," she chortled.

"Yes, well, they were disabused of the notion quite quickly," he replied. "How did you get on with Bert's dead body? I see we've acquired some luggage."

She frowned. "Mmm. Retrieved from the thoroughly unpleasant captain of the _Marella_ before she sailed on tonight's tide. The thing's about half full of archaeological finds - Bert and Cec could barely manage it between them, so how on earth Gillander lifted it all by himself, heaven only knows. Still," she continued, "these letters were in it, so I'll be able to go and see his landlady tomorrow; and there's an address for a sister in Brisbane too."

He squeezed her shoulders and rolled off the bed to start undressing. "I suppose it's useless to ask you to take it easy?"

She rolled her eyes. "Jack, I'm going calling on a landlady, not climbing Uluru." He stopped in the act of removing his cufflinks to glare at her; she relented. "I tell you what. As a special favour, and in recognition of my advanced stage of infirmity" (at this he snorted and threatened her with a pillow) "I'll find out about the upshot of the post-mortem by the medium of telephone from the comfort of my own front hall. Will that make you happy?"

He climbed in beside her. "Delirious," he muttered, putting out the light and possessing her hand in both of his. "G'night."

She looked fondly down at him, and reflected; if only her ten-years-younger self could see her now. Not wildly dancing the night away in the constant battle to forget the wartime fear of dawn, and fuelled by far too much champagne, but tucked up in bed with a gently snoring policeman and a bump the size of a beach ball.

There was nothing for it, she resolved; once this baby was born and she was back on her feet, she was going to have to take Jack dancing again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

The Detective Chief Inspector extricated himself from the boudoir at a horribly early hour the following morning, in preparation for a hard day's prosecution of blackmailers. Miss Fisher, having dozed off successfully only an hour previously in her half-recumbent position, was not available for comment, and he wisely left her to sleep.

It was therefore a couple of hours later that she swam back gradually into consciousness, with the awareness that she was not alone.

Determined to assess the threat as soon as the gentle fog of sleep reluctantly released her, she struggled to open her eyes slightly, and met a remarkably similar pair which were regarding her solemnly.

"I didn't wake you up, did I, Mumma? Mary Lou said I mustn't wake you up because the baby won't let you go to sleep." She regarded the bump accusingly.

Sensing a problem that needed nipped in the bud, Phryne pushed herself up a little in the bed, and patted the space beside her invitingly.

"If you'll go and ring the bell for Soo, I'll tell you about all the things _you_ got up to just before you were born, Elizabeth. And I might just mention that letting your mother sleep didn't seem to be particularly high on your agenda!"

Elizabeth Jane Robinson giggled, ran to press the bell and then launched herself at the bed in a fashion which made her mother whimper involuntarily. Soo arrived, bearing recuperative coffee, and as the bath was running, all three of them participated in the discussion of what Miss Fisher should wear that day. As the temperature was once more verging on the tropical, a light cotton wraparound was selected, after which Elizabeth recalled that Mr Butler had been making biscuits, and thought she might go to check if they were finished yet and needing tested; so Miss Fisher was able to complete her ablutions in peace.

After a breakfast which consisted chiefly of fresh fruit, Miss Fisher and Mr B sallied forth to drive to Footscray. The lodgings in which Gillander had stayed proved to be small, but very neat; the curtains in the window were a little threadbare but scrupulously clean, and the front step, Phryne noted approvingly, had recently been scrubbed.

The lady who answered the door appeared recently to have been scrubbed, too - her complexion was ruddy, suggesting that in this house, Friday was washday. She blinked at the vision of fecundity before her, but the combination of the impeccable accessories, up to and including Mr Butler, had her standing back to invite the visitor in even as the visitor was proffering a business card.

"Come through to the front room, Ma'am" said her hostess, a Mrs Little. "How can I help?"

Selecting a chair as much for its height from the ground and the availability of arms to assist with the process of exiting it in due course, Miss Fisher regally accepted, then explained, with due solemnity, the reason for her visit.

"Oh dear! Oh, poor Gill," was the response. Mrs Little flourished a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes with what was evidently real grief. "How did it happen?"

"His heart," said Phryne briefly. "Although the doctor wasn't immediately sure why it should have given out just then. The post-mortem is being conducted this morning, and we'll know more soon."

"Oh dear," said Mrs Little again, this time with a hint of distaste so often found amongst the law-abiding classes for the due process of law.

"He didn't seem particularly old?" asked Phryne. "I'd have guessed … in his forties?"

"Just turned fifty," corrected Mrs Little. "We had a special tea for him last month, and I baked a cake and everything. Oh dear!" her eyes watered up and she resorted once more to what was clearly a favourite litany.

"Really? He was in very good shape, then," observed Phryne.

"Oh, he was always up and doing," sniffed Mrs Little. "Every waking hour he'd be somewhere around Port Phillip. Him and his rocks!"

"Yes," Phryne agreed, "there are certainly plenty of those. Did he collect them from all over?"

"No-o-o," replied Mrs Little, considering. "No, I think most of what he collected was quite recent - up in Keilor he was, most of the last few weeks. Come home every night filthy, and with another bag of the things." She shook her head. "I tried to put my foot down, time and again. But would he listen? Says Keilor's really important," she paused, and smiled wanly, "Important for sheep, I said, but he just kept right on digging up his rocks."

"I must say, I hadn't heard of there being a dig at Keilor," commented Phryne, "but if he found artefacts there … I should perhaps ask one of my contacts at the University for advice. Unless you think I should send them to his sister?"

That, at least, raised a smile. "I don't think she'd thank you any more than I would, Miss Fisher! No, you write and tell her, but I don't think she'll want all those dirty old rocks. Gill said they were his heritage, and that nobody had a right to them except the Aboriginals."

"Was he working with anyone?" Phryne pressed.

She thought for a moment, then shook her head. "No. No, I'm sure he wasn't. He didn't trust anyone, you see. He said that as soon as the white men knew about his find, they'd steal it all." Phryne mused, and guessed that there was a great deal of substance to the fear; her disposition of the artefacts would need to be done sensitively.

"Could I, perhaps, see his room?"

Mrs Little flung out a hand. "You're welcome, I'm sure, but there's little enough to see. He said his spare suit could go to charity, because there wasn't room in his box."

"So he was leaving for good?" Phryne remarked. "I suppose that explains why he wanted all the artefacts with him."

She rose; promising to keep in touch with Mrs Little, Miss Fisher rejoined Mr Butler in the Hispano.

"Home, please, Mr B," she announced. "By all accounts, the late Mr Gillander was a healthy sort who spent most of his time in the outdoors. I want to see if the medical profession concurs. In fact …" she mused, "I wonder if I could get the medical profession to come round for a cocktail this afternoon? Dr MacMillan does rather like my whisky." She patted her bump resignedly. "It's just a shame that this thing has yet again put paid to my taste for spirits."

"A medicinal glass of champagne might be just the thing, madam," offered her driver consolingly.

Miss Fisher smiled wryly. "The sheer excitement will probably have the child popping out straight away. I shall tell Mac to bring a pinny!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

After a light lunch, Miss Fisher ensconced herself at the telephone. A first attempt to reach Ross McCafferty among the unreliably living saw no luck; but Mac was predictably discovered among the reliably deceased, and although she wasn't immediately available for conversation, sent a message that she would return the call promptly.

No sooner had Phryne replaced the handset than it rang again.

"Mac, that was quick! Oh, hello Dot. What? No, nothing yet," she crossed her fingers and continued. "I wasn't alerting Mac to an imminent arrival, but asking her about a recent departure. How are you? Elizabeth? No more excitable than usual, thank you. Oh, I'm sure she would adore it! You don't mind? When shall I send her over? Four? Super." After cheerful farewells, she replaced the handset and called up to the nursery.

A clattering of feet on the stairs told her that the toddler was On Her Way.

"Hello, poppet," her mother greeted her. "Your Aunt Dot wants to know if you'll come for tea and stay the night with Gid and Meggie tonight."

The bouncing and squealing that this question elicited made Miss Fisher wonder how soon 4pm could arrive, and she held out an imperious hand for calm, which was mostly observed. "Mary Lou, would you mind packing a complete change of clothes as well as Miss Elizabeth's night things?"

The nurse nodded. "Two changes, I think, to be on the safe side," she recommended. "That sand pit! I'll go with her in case Mrs Collins needs an extra pair of hands, and stay at my sister's, Ma'am."

Phryne agreed that this was sensible, and the nursery deputation departed to discuss wardrobe needs.

Before she had the chance to debate the advantages of moving to a more comfortable seat, the telephone rang once more, so she picked it up.

"St Kilda telephone exchange, I'm afraid all our operators are having a nice time at the beach so there's only me. Press Button A for champagne and Button B if you're feeling lucky."

"Phryne, one of these days you're going to get caught out."

"Never, Mac. Anyway, why shouldn't they have a nice time at the beach? The poor girls don't want to be languishing in an exchange in weather like this. But enough of this levity."

Mac refrained from pointing out who'd started it. "I take it you were calling about the man who died in the taxi yesterday?"

"Bert's cadaver, yes," said Phryne. "And also to ask you round for a glass of something later, to rescue me from a fate worse than death."

"Oh?" Mac sounded interested. "What's that, then?"

"Boredom," said Phryne. "The wretched infant kicks me awake all night and prevents me moving all day. It may only have been nine months, but it's currently feeling like nine years."

"Always happy to help with your whisky surplus," replied the doctor cheerfully. "In the meantime, you should know that I've sent my report across to Ross as requested."

"And …?"

"Very obvious dilated cardiomyopathy," announced Mac with satisfaction.

There was a resounding silence in St Kilda.

"A weak heart, Phryne," the doctor explained helpfully.

"Ah."

There was then a slightly shorter silence while Miss Fisher digested the new information and decided what to do with it. Mac waited patiently, because she had more sense than to think she would get away with that.

"So he could have dropped dead at any time?"

"We all could, Phryne-mine. If, however, you're asking whether he just upped and died for no reason, it's unlikely. It was a hot day yesterday. Did he decide to take himself for a marathon run before getting on the boat?"

"I don't think so …" Phryne thought for a moment. "But he did have to put his trunk on the _Marella_ all by himself. It was half full of rocks, and Bert refused to lift it on his own. Could that have done it?"

"If Albert Johnson was prepared to admit defeat with a mere trunk, I'd say that was an unusual exertion unless Gillander was a circus strongman - and from his muscle tone, I'd say he was more than average healthy, but no freak."

"In that case, Mac, I need to try to persuade the Inspector to bring charges of Death by Wilful Racism," declared Phryne roundly. "That ship's captain knew perfectly well what he was about, and he's not going to get away with it."

"Hmm. I applaud the effort but doubt you'll see success."

"Come for a Scotch later on; and watch a master of her craft in action," was the dark response.

"Righto," was the cheery reply.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

By four o'clock that afternoon, 221B The Esplanade was a haven of calm. The nursery party had departed for Collins Towers, Mr Butler and Lin Soo having offered to cater for the enlarged numbers and left a cold collation for Mr and Mrs Robinson. Phryne sighed happily, and decided that, comfortable though her couch might be, her bed would knock seven bells out of it in a fair fight, and hauled herself upright. The journey up the stairs was once again punctuated by a spasm in her back, but she reminded herself that stairs always did that and everyone had been telling her to rest, and where better to do that but in bed?

On arriving in the boudoir, she slipped off the dress and assumed a Chinese robe in light silk, before reclining thankfully on the mattress.

A few minutes later, she felt a sensation that had only occurred once before in her life. With great presence of mind, she rolled off the bed to kneel on the rug, and watched a rush of fluid soak it.

"Oh, that's a nuisance" said Miss Fisher (in broad translation).

Another spasm of an all-too-familiar kind caught her, and she stripped off the now-soaked robe and undergarments, to roll back on to the bed and debate Next Steps.

She had hardly got beyond dismissing the idea of returning to the telephone when another contraction came. How could they be coming so close, so soon? She reassured herself that she had done this before, she was healthy, she'd no reason to believe the child wasn't healthy too, she could do this. Women in the tea plantations would have a child without even breaking step, surely she could do it in the lap of relatively sanitised luxury? There was something about breathing. She did that. Then recalled that she'd been doing it all her life and cursed antenatal professionals in the bluest of language while the next contraction came.

At this point, relief arrived, in the form of a key in the front door.

Marvellous. Someone new to curse.

"Hello?"

"Jack?"

"Home early - where are you?"

"Boudoir, and currently alone, but possibly not for much longer - can you telephone Mac again? And then come upstairs? Please?"

Miss Fisher absolutely did not _do_ plaintive, so the last word was a polite entreaty of a purely social nature. Still, it appeared to work, and within the space of thirty seconds, she was rewarded by the sight of a pale-faced policeman, coatless, sleeves in the process of being rolled up, panic thinly veiled by a veneer of calm.

"Mac wasn't there, but they're going to try and find her and send her over. What do I do?"

"Hello, darling. I haven't a clue. I seem to recall that there was a time I had to stop breathing and start pushing, but neither suggestion seemed like much fun at the time, so could you just - sort of - hang around and hold my hand?"

It turned out that he could, and did, and they muddled through. Within a couple of hours, Mac was letting herself into the house by the door left most reprehensibly on the latch (local housebreakers having apparently declared a full day's holiday for the momentous event), while the latest addition to the Robinson family was arriving simultaneously by slightly less spacious means, but no less effectively.

Phryne believed in dressing appropriately for every occasion. On this occasion, Appropriate Dress turned out to be stark naked, attached to the earth's newest acquisition by an umbilical cord and with sweat on her brow which was a mixture of hers and that of Detective Chief Inspector Robinson.

She therefore considered herself dressed entirely appropriately for the conversation upon which she was embarking.

"Hello, my little accident. What brand of adventure are you going to be?"

The young man didn't immediately reply, but once Mac had finished tidying her up, she settled back on clean sheets to examine her offspring more closely; and concluded that he was certainly going to be extremely handsome; and the way his brow furrowed and his mouth turned down a little at the edges, bore a remarkable resemblance to his father.

Father, in the meantime, had gone to telephone the Collins' and Aunt Prudence with the news, and returned with a pot of tea and a bottle of whisky.

"What are you going to call him?" asked Mac, settling back with a sigh of relief and gulping a scotch.

Phryne grinned. "Well, the only other person I know who looks like this is called Jack."

"And I'd like to remain the only one in the house, please," requested the Inspector mildly. "Think what would happen when the post arrives."

"John?"

"That's my actual name, Phryne. Have you no imagination?"

"But _look_ at him, Jack! Can you blame me?"

He looked, and decided that of all the things he might want to award Miss Fisher in recognition of her sheer genius in producing the child, blame definitely wasn't one of them.

"How about Ian?" piped up Mac.

"The Scottish version of John? I like it," Phryne nodded. "Well, Ian Robinson, are you hungry?"

He confirmed that he was.


	9. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The front door received a heavy pounding at an early hour the following morning, when the sleepover party decided that they'd waited long enough and returned _en masse_ to have a look at the new arrival. Elizabeth demanded to be allowed to hold him, and observed that he was quite sweet but a bit wrinkly, Mumma.

When she heard of the choice of name, Dot nodded wisely. "I'm sure if he ever goes to Scotland, he'll have a warm welcome, Miss."

Phryne grinned. "Any son of mine, Dot! At the very least, he won't have to look too far for partners at the Oban Ball. But I hoped you might help me with a middle name? Something equally biblical?"

Dot tipped her head, considering. Greatly daring, she eyed Miss Fisher and asked "I suppose it would be going too far to suggest Moses - who handed down the commandments?"

Phryne shuddered theatrically. "Much too far. If he's to be expected to honour his father and, more problematically, his mother, he needs to have a bit of a weather eye to the Shalt Nots, thanks all the same."

Dot pondered some more, and then grinned. "Would it be fair to say that he's God's gift, Miss?"

Phryne chortled. "Rather too early to tell, I'd have thought. The matrons of Melbourne won't need to lock up their daughters quite yet. Why?"

"Well, one of the disciples had a name that means that. In John's gospel."

Phryne mused, and perused her personal lexicon of biblical characters.

"Okay, Dot, I like the idea, but I can't call to mind the disciple in question. Is it going to be a name that rolls off the tongue after Ian?"

"I think it works quite nicely, actually, Miss. I mean … there's a bit of a ring to Ian Nathaniel Robinson, isn't there?"

"Or the other way round. I rather like the idea of Nate Robinson. He could do anything with a name like that, couldn't he? Athlete - actor - dancer - maybe even a policeman if he worked hard enough."

Miss Fisher undertook to consult the Inspector on the issue, so the matter was as good as settled.

With a brand new baby in the house, the nanny Mary Lou was in her element, and swept the child away for a nap, shooing the rest of the guests out of the room so that Madam could have her bath. Jack ran it, and knelt beside the tub, soaping her limbs with reverence. She argued for prosecution of Captain Bailey. He said that the best he might manage would be manslaughter, but he'd give it a shot.

(At that point, he was more or less ready to have a shot at moving Uluru to Brisbane if she asked it.)

Eventually, their idle chat died away, and she half-opened her eyes to look at him pensively.

"Is there something you're not saying?"

He looked at her, then back at the shapes he was drawing on the back of her hand.

"Well … I've been doing some thinking."

"Mmm?"

"Apparently … there's an operation that a man can have … and McCafferty says he's done a couple already," said Jack hesitantly.

"What sort of an operation?" she asked.

"Well … they cut and seal the vas, and once it's had the chance to take effect, it's highly unlikely that the man will father children."

The words came out in a rush, and he flushed as he said them.

She gave him a long look that was filled with more love than he had yet imagined she could express.

"So I thought … I wondered if perhaps I should …" he tailed off hopelessly and became inexplicably obsessed with the wallpaper.

She smiled, and dragged on his hand to bring him close, kissing his temple with lingering affection.

"My darling man, you would really do that for me?"

He nodded sheepishly.

"Then I have only one thing to say."

He looked up at her quizzically.

"If you let that nasty Dr McCafferty give you such a horrid cut as that …"

She edged in closer and whispered in his ear.

" _I'll kiss it better._ "


End file.
